Buttered Bread
by Citizenjess
Summary: It's been nine months and Nathan wants some answers. Spoilers through the season three premiere. Slash.


Everyone's had their fill of the Nathan-deals-with-Charles-being-gone motif. Here is my take on the same scenario. Sorry.

Summary: It's been nine months, and Nathan wants some answers. Rated PG-13.

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**Buttered Bread**  


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After their monumentally expensive concert, post-Mordhaus being nominally destroyed, the guys decompress as they usually do, with a dip in their living room hot tub (salvaged from the disaster, and freshly cleaned - most of Murderface's sandscape has been removed, as well). They're chatty as ever, which pleases Charles - he worries when they get too bogged down with the reality of, well, themselves. Chatty is healthy, even if the majority of the conversation seems devoted to the band - mostly, Murderface, Skwisgaar and Pickles - comparing notes on which Dethklok groupies they've fingered and what it smelled like, with Toki shuddering at the memory of being 'the judge' on several separate occasions.

Notably, Nathan is the only one amongst them who isn't participating in the festivities. The front man is in his usual attire, albeit with most of his stage make-up either wiped off or smudged, sitting on one of the room's many couches and scowling. The expression is telling of several situations - Nathan is, by nature, kind of a brooder - and none of the other members of Dethklok seem particularly worried about it. "Hey, Nathan, you gonna come join us?" Pickles calls to him at one point, but Nathan waves him off, continuing to sit and stare.

Charles notices, of course. He's known Nathan longer than all of them, and feels a certain appreciation for Nathan's particular brand of saying nothing while saying everything. Nathan is a man of few words, and those that end up making their way out usually become song lyrics. The rest are gruffly uttered bits of insight that Charles chews on and imbibes for future use, and a small sliver of them are obscenities - those are less important, but also less frequent than one might expect from any member of the most brutal metal band in the world.

Eventually, Charles leaves them all be, hoping to spend some time in his office, getting reacquainted with his desk. Already, he's donned his glasses and suit again, not comfortable looking too comfortable when he's saving the day as Dethklok's manager-lawyer. The intended isolation is not to be. Fifteen minutes or so later, the looming shadow of Nathan Explosion darkens his doorway, literally and figuratively. The man's eyes are bloodshot and sunken - it could just be a trick of the lighting and the remnants of his stage makeup, but Charles has a feeling that Nathan hasn't slept well for quite some time. By the looks of the kitchen, it's doubtful he or any of the guys have eaten well, either. Charles has already put most of the Klokateers back to work, promising bonuses and compensation for their bounced paychecks. On the other hand, the emotional impact that his absence has had on the band is less easily decided.

Nathan is still wearing his scowl as he crosses the threshold, sitting in one of several chairs opposite Charles' side of the expansive mahogany desk. There he sits, hunched, hands on his knees, staring directly at the CFO's face, barely moving but for blinking. It's meant to intimidate, but Charles has been privvy to it many times. He clears his throat, patiently trying to work through what this latest funk is all about.

"Nathan," he offers, in as warm a tone as he might reach, "Is everything all right? How are you?"

"Nine months," Nathan rumbles.

Charles sets down his pen. "Excuse me?" he blinks, but he already has hopped onto Nathan's train of thought.

Nathan straightens miniscule degrees. "Nine months," he repeats, baring his teeth. "You've been gone nine months. You never bothered to tell us you were still alive. You never told us anything." His eyes are dangerous slits, but Charles isn't afraid, simply worried.

He clears his throat. "Nathan, there were extenuating circumstances. I wanted to tell you, of course, but-"

"Did you really want to tell us?" Nathan demanded, rolling one massive hand into a fist, laid impotently on his knee. "Do you even care? Or are you just a fucking robot?"

Charles' mouth is open in a small 'o' of surprise. He hasn't expected the vitriol, the, well, hurt. The other band members mostly seem content that their rock star lifestyles have been restored by way of Charles coming back and taking care of their financial business anew. He realizes he hasn't accounted for any of them, particularly Nathan, being genuinely despondent at the absence of him.

And yet, he remains calm, cool, collected as ever. "I care about you boys a great deal," he says solemnly, his hands folded non-confrontationally in front of his person. "I didn't want to keep you in the dark."

"Well then why did you?"

"It was necessary for everyone to think I was gone for a time," Charles reiterated, a well-practiced speech. "I was pronounced dead on the scene, and was removed from the premises shortly after. I recovered, and took care of some ... business in the meantime." He pauses, wondering if Nathan can handle anymore revelations. "But I've been keeping tabs on you from afar. There's just some things I can't take care of from a distance."

Nathan's frown deepens. "Like the record company trying to screw us out of our money?"

"Right." Charles raises an eyebrow. "I did warn you there would be repercussions for punching that guy in the face, didn't I?"

"Maybe." Nathan's face is a jumble of emotions. He's suddenly looming, pointing a finger accusingly at Charles. "Look, you don't get to do that."

"Do what?" Just when he thought he was getting somewhere, too; but the vein in Nathan's forehead is bulging now, angrily.

"You don't get to do ... this. You can't disappear, and not write or call or anything, and then try to act like you care by bringing up stuff from the past or something. That's a dick move. You're a dick," Nathan says acerbically.

Charles sighs. "What would you have me do, Nathan?" he asks, and his voice has a hint of exhaustion in it now.

Nathan's looming is ever-present. "Damn it, I want you to care! I want to know you feel even remotely glad to be here again, to be with ..." he trails off. Charles waits for him to continue.

"I mean, it's like, everyone dealt with it differently." The front man's words are a stream of consciousness more than anything now, and Charles listens carefully. "Like, Toki carries around a picture in his wallet, and Pickles has a locket and shit." He leans down so that his face and Charles' are close. "I came in here and smashed every lamp in your office," he growled. "And you know what?"

Charles blinks. "What?" he asks.

Nathan's jaw is impossibly tight. "It didn't help," he rasps. He grabs Charles by the tie, and the slighter man gasps a little. Then Nathan mumbles something that might be about "bread and butter" before tugging their mouths together and locking his lips onto Charles' own. He's been drinking, and it's apparent as their tongues slide across one another, but the experience is not entirely unpleasant for either of them.

When they part, Nathan's hand continues fisting Charles' tie. "You have a scar," he notes, as if it's the first time he's seen it. "From ... that." He lets go of the tie.

Charles straightens his clothing. "Yes, Nathan, from that." He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose a little; the taste of Nathan lingers in his mouth. He's not sure how to feel about that.

The air between them has changed. Nathan stands awkwardly, seeming to wait for Charles' reaction, any reaction, good or bad. He can't take the silence that ensues between them. "You're an asshole," he frowns. "And a robot. You're a robot asshole."

The corners of Charles' mouth turn up the slightest bit. "I'm sorry about that, Nathan." He pauses. "I'm ... glad to be back," he affirms. "Really. I missed you boys."

Nathan's face is exhausted. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Mmm. Yes," Charles affirms. "Of course."

"Oh." Nathan seems to process this. Finally, he turns to leave. "You should probably make Toki see a doctor or something. He's like, not good at dealing with death and stuff." The singer walks to the door. "And don't, um, tell anyone about ... you know," he rumbles.

"I won't," Charles promises. He nods slightly. "Good night, Nathan."

"Night." He's gone as quickly as he first appeared. Seamlessly, Charles turns his attention back to the papers he was initially engrossed in. When the brandy he treats himself to washes away the last remnants of Nathan's taste on his lips, he's surprised by how much this disappoints him.


End file.
